


Ruin Me, Save Me

by MarchnoGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bars and Pubs, Biting, Derogatory Language, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hate Sex, Hung Harry Potter, Hurt/Comfort, Lingerie, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Make Up, Mention of orgasm delay, No Lube, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Switching, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vibrators, mention of light bdsm, somewhere in here there's the eighth year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarchnoGirl/pseuds/MarchnoGirl
Summary: Sex with a stranger in a pub bathroom sounds dirty; sex with Potter in a pub bathroom only sounds dangerous.Fuck, but you love dangerous.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 55
Kudos: 428





	Ruin Me, Save Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OTPshipper98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98/gifts).



> What to say. It's a very self-indulgent fic. My mind was drifting off at work, a filthy scene came to me, and I was like, _I'mma write it_. And here we are. 
> 
> It's the first time I use the 2nd person POV and it's entirely inspired by the incredible, amazing, breathtaking way [lq_traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill) uses it, so you have my gratitude for the great inspiration you are to me as a writer. 
> 
> My biggest thank yous go to [OTPshipper98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPshipper98) who betad this and screamed at me while doing it, encouraging me and giving me the strength to post it. I love you. If you like the title at all and can read this without wanting to rip your eyes off your head, it's thanks to them. 
> 
> Also, the sweetest [Quicksilvermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilvermaid), who's always ready to cheerlead and support me. You're the best. ❤️

**August 1998**

You almost spill your drink over your shirt when you see him.

He’s talking to the barman, laughing, elbows on the counter, chin resting on his hands. Lips pursed, back arched, arse propped up: he looks straight out of a porn movie.

Harry fucking Potter is flirting with the barman in one of the thousand Muggle pubs in London and he looks like sex on legs.

You panic. Of course you do: Potter testified for you at your trial, effectively sparing you months, if not years, in Azkaban. It’s all too fresh: it happened barely a month ago. You still have to write that ‘thank you’ letter.

You will do it, you just. Panic, when it’s him.

Just when you decide to turn around and run the fuck out of the pub, he cocks his head and his eyes find yours.

You freeze, drink in hand, as Potter’s lips part in a smirk. He gestures with a finger to call you closer.

And you go, closer, feeling yourself drawn to him like a sailor to a siren.

“Potter,” you say, nodding. Up closer, Potter’s even hotter: the first thing you notice is that he’s not wearing his glasses. If you thought you’d ever seen green, you were wrong. He’s also wearing black eyeliner, which highlights his eyes and makes you salivate, and a shiny red lipstick that looks completely ruined. Like maybe he’s drunk too much or someone has smudged it with a kiss.

Your eyes roam to his white shirt, so transparent you can see his tight, dark nipples, to his leather trousers: they look painted on him, there’s no room for the imagination.

Still, you blink and you wonder if you’re maybe dreaming. He does look like one of your dreams.

“Like what you see?” he asks. His voice is low, amused, the smirk still playing on his red, ruined lips. It goes straight to your cock, which twitches. How fucking drunk must Potter be if he’s flirting with you, now?

“As a matter of fact,” you say, leaning against the counter, “yes, I do.”

You, on the contrary, don’t have any excuses. You’re not drunk, you’ve just arrived.

You should be running out of this situation, this mess. Potter clearly has got something going on: he’s drunk, alone in a Muggle pub. You should get out. But you can’t. You never can, with him.

He snorts, adjusts his position so that he’s facing you. He threads a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. It only makes him look sultrier.

“So maybe we should continue this… conversation in the bathroom.”

It’s not a question. Your cock is now fully, achingly hard. Sex with a stranger in a pub bathroom sounds dirty; sex with Potter in a pub bathroom only sounds dangerous.

Fuck, but you love dangerous.

If you had ever imagined having sex with Potter —which you definitely _haven’t—_ all the fantasies would be forgotten when he starts giggling as he unbuckles his belt. Salazar, he’s roaring drunk.

You feel like this shouldn’t be happening at all, but fuck, you’re not a good man: your attraction to Potter has been going on for as long as you can remember, and his lips, his eyes, his _everything_ is terribly calling to you.

“Let me,” you say as you reach for his belt ‘cause he’s too slow. You’re eager, now, can’t wait anymore. “Fuck, Potter, you’re drunk.” You feel like someone should say it, even while you’re grasping his leather trousers, pulling them down.

“Fuck,” you gasp, because _fuck_ , Potter’s not wearing any underwear.

He laughs— it’s intoxicating. “That’s about the idea,” he drawls. Then, “Fuck me like a whore,” he whispers. “Ruin me, fucking ruin me, Malfoy.”

Your mouth goes dry, your knees almost buckle— he’s said your name. You hadn’t realised you couldn't believe he wanted to fuck you; you thought he was so drunk he hadn’t recognised you.

But he says your name and you drop to your knees.

His cock must be a divine creation: it’s thick, long, framed by dark curls. You moan, part your lips and slip it into your mouth, groaning around it. Fuck, it’s enormous— you’ve barely swallowed the tip and it’s already too much.

Potter squirms, moans, lifts a leg to put it behind your back. The invitation is clear. You let go of his cock, lick around your fingers, spit on them, and waste no time before swallowing his length again.

Now, you push two fingers into Potter’s hole: he cries out; one hand flies to grasp your hair. His hole is so tight you almost come in your pants as his muscles spasm around your fingers.

You don’t do these things, usually. Usually, you take your time, preparing your partner, but Potter’s words are hot in your mind. _Fucking ruin me, Malfoy._

You crook your fingers further in as you suck harder, angling your head so that your throat opens and you can take him deeper. He gasps, pulling at your hair, hips twitching, trying to push his cock harder into your mouth and to fuck himself on your fingers all at once.

“Your cock,” he rasps. “Want it. Inside me, now.”

His hand leaves your hair, and you let go of his cock, push your fingers out. “Commanding a bit too much for a whore,” you say, coughing a little, your throat sore.

You push yourself on your feet— Potter’s a sight with his eyes wild, his hair mussed with sweat, and his plump red lips stretched into a grin. “Don’t want it to be too easy for you, Malfoy.”

A second later you’ve stripped him from his trousers, taken his legs and draped them around your waist. “I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll beg me to stop,” you say as he clenches his thighs behind your back. You take out your cock: it’s indecent, lord, Harry Potter pressed against a wall, half-naked, legs entwined behind your back.

“But I won’t,” you continue as you line your cock to his hole, tight, too tight; he’s not prepared at all. You tease him, rubbing your cock head over his rim. “I won’t stop until I’ve filled your whore hole with my come.”

He flushes: it looks so pretty it makes you want to break him more.

“Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

You grit your teeth, push your cock inside him. Fuck, it hurts. If it hurts for you, it must be hell for him. You look into his eyes, but they’re closed. He’s biting on his lips, his hands crossed on your nape, nails digging into your skin.

“I—” you say, because you’re not a good man, but you’re not an animal either.

“If you stop now I’m gonna have to kill you.” He doesn’t open his eyes, but his voice is steady.

You grip his waist harder —you’re sure you’re going to leave some nasty bruises there— and push all the way in, holding your breath. He’s holding his too, stomach taught, hole clenched.

You both need to relax. You lean in closer to whisper in his ear: “Such a slut, Potter, and your small, tight hole can’t take me?”

He shivers, and it feels amazing inside him. “Move, fucking move!” he cries out.

You smirk, pull almost all the way out, then slam in again with more force than necessary. He’s mewling, now, dirty, hot pleas and moans escaping his lips. It’s enticing, and you do it all over again to keep hearing those lewd sounds.

You’re both panting now, Potter’s cock hard and leaking against his stomach, bobbing with every thrust, untouched. Someone outside laughs, shouts, “That’s it, darlings!”

Potter chokes on a laugh, groans, “Yes,” and, “More, _more_.” You speed up, angling your hips, until he finally grips you harder, his eyes flying open. “Oh! There, yes!”

It’s violent, the pace you’ve set up. You’re unrelenting, now, brushing his secret spot with every thrust, and Potter’s squirming, shivering frantically. His legs are trembling, his stomach keeps clenching and unclenching.

He clamps hard on your cock every now and then, and you see stars.

You’re fucking Harry Potter in a Muggle pub.

He looks at you, leans in, bites hard on your lips. Before he can back away, you capture his lips, return the favour. His lipstick’s almost gone, now. His eyeliner is all messed up from perspiration.

“I want to see it,” he suddenly says as if he’s just now noticed you. You stop, deep into him.

“What?”

He grasps your left arm, rolls the sleeve up. Your mark is red, stained, but very much there, and he’s looking at it.

“Fuck you,” you spit, trying to pull out, but he squeezes his legs, keeping you closer.

With the other hand, he rips the buttons of your shirt open, trails a finger on your chest. Your other marks are there, the ones _he_ left.

“You’re all marked up, aren’t you,” he says, and fuck, you hate him. So you push out a little —as much as you can with him clamping hard around you— and thrust in so hard he’s breathless. Both his hands tighten. He bares his teeth.

“Me,” he says, looking at your chest. “And _him_ ,” looking at your arm. He lets go of your arm, leans in to whisper, “I said ruin me, Malfoy.”

You sink your teeth into his collarbones, hard, and resume your mad rutting. After a couple of thrusts, you taste blood under your teeth— it emboldens you.

“There,” you snarl, rough, angry. “You’re marked too, now.”

As he shouts, his cock bobs in the air and starts shooting all over his stomach, your chest. His hole throbs furiously around you— it makes your head spin. You still inside him, filling him with your release: it feels endless.

Even after you’re finished, you find yourself feebly thrusting inside him; pathetic, honestly. But you can’t get enough of being inside Harry fucking Potter.

He tugs at your hair and you stop, pull out. He puts his leather trousers back on, says, “That was fun,” and he’s out of that bathroom —and, you think, of your life— faster than when he used to catch the snitch back in school.

**September 1998**

As it turns out, that wasn’t the last time you’d see each other.

You should have foreseen it. McGonagall sends letters to all the students who fought the war. _You’re welcome to sit your N.E.W.T.s and use the library, and more generally the Hogwarts grounds, during the year to prepare them as you see fit,_ it said.

Lucky. You’re so damn lucky.

So that’s how you meet him again. He’s sitting by the shore of the Great Lake, book on his lap, Granger and Weasley next to him. When he sees you, he sneers, and your cock —treacherous, vile little thing, that— decides to perk up at the sight: Potter’s wearing his eyeliner again.

Not an hour later, you’re bent over a desk in a forgotten classroom. Potter’s on his knees, licking your arsehole.

“Now who’s the whore,” he says as he splutters saliva all over your hole. You don’t care as long as he keeps doing _that_.

You also avoid pointing out that he’s the one who asked you to call him a whore.

“Me,” you pant. Why the hell are you even speaking at this point? “I’m the whore, eat me,” you mewl. Pathetic.

Potter slaps your arsecheeks, bites you around the rim— you buckle, hold on the edge of the desk for dear life.

“I’ll make you come like this,” he breathes hotly against your sensitive skin. You cry out— yes, he definitely will.

You come, as foreseen, and a second later you hear the sounds of his wet hand furiously tugging on his cock. You want to see that; you turn your head, look over your shoulder and watch as his perfect, thick cock peeks out of his fist, spasming, painting everything with long shots of cum.

**October 1998**

It’s Halloween. You’ve never really loved it; apparently, Potter doesn’t either. He finds you sitting by a small river deep inside the Forbidden Forest.

One day you’ll understand how he can always find you.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asks as if he isn’t the one who’s intruding on you. He’s not wearing a costume, but his lips are black like the thick foliage of the Forest at night.

“None of your business.” You sneer, grab his shirt and pull him closer. “Black tonight?”

Something flickers in his eyes, something you can’t quite place. A second later, he’s expressionless again. “I’m grieving,” he says like it’s nothing. _The sky is blue, Dragons breathe fire, Flinch is crazy_ — just like a personal confession from the fucking Saviour.

Suddenly, you remember. His parents died on Halloween night.

“What do you want from me?”

“I think you know,” he murmurs in your ear, his hand already palming your growing erection.

You turn him around, make him stumble until he’s face-first against a tree. He’s bucking his hips backwards, already panting. Everyone should see him like this, you think. So you say it.

“Everyone should see you like this.” And then you add, “Bent over for a Death Eater. The Saviour of us all. I’ll make you forget who you are.”

“Fuck.” You almost miss him cursing, because you’re slamming your cock in him and by the time he’s talking, you’re balls-deep in him, your teeth scratching his ear shell. “Please,” he murmurs. “Please,” again. He’s begging you.

You can’t do anything else but comply.

**November 1998**

You’re undressing him in the Quidditch lockers, and you stop, amazed, as soon as his pants are out.

“For Merlin’s sake…” you murmur. “Potter, you saucy slut.” You slap his arse, and he chuckles.

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’ve spent the entire match staring at your arse.” Someone should definitely put a stopper on your mouth sometimes. But Potter seems to like it.

“I know,” he says. And then, “I want to fuck you.”

You study him carefully, nod, brush your fingers on the satin lingerie panties he’s wearing. They’re light orange, and you can see the dark tip of his cock through the lace.

Bending over, you take the fabric in your teeth and slowly roll it down Potter’s thighs. He moans, pushes his dick in your face.

“I hate you,” you say because if you’re taking it up your arse, you need to remind him.

“Me too,” is his reply. Then he bends you over and you’re stuffed with his big, enormous cock, the little sanity that’s left in you abandoning you.

**December 1998**

For Christmas, you want all but to spend the holidays with your mother. Your father’s dead, kissed by the Dementors, and she’s trailing towards insanity day by day.

You know you don’t have any right to be angry, that you deserve all this and worse, but you are. Angry. Disappointed. _Life’s unfair,_ you can’t help but think.

That’s how you find yourself wandering outside The Lewd Legs— a Muggle stripper club, open on Christmas Eve. How shabby. But you don’t have any more dignity. You don’t care. You go back there, even if you haven’t fucked anyone else but Potter in the last five months.

A few hours later, you’re completely wasted, sitting on a filthy chair —you can still see the stains of someone else’s dry cum on the armrest— thinking about how fucking much life sucks.

“Look who’s here,” a familiar voice drawls. It’s Potter, of course it is.

You lift your head, your sight swims. “Are you following me?” Why is Harry fucking Potter at a stripper club, on Christmas Eve, when he surely has a lovely red-haired family waiting for him at home?

“Maybe,” he replies. He looks drunk, too, judging by the way he’s clenching the front of your shirt. Or is he…

He pulls you up, drags you outside the club, Apparates you directly on a very comfortable sofa.

“You can stay here if you want. I have to go, now.”

You look at him. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol fogging your brain or if Harry Potter has really brought you to his place to spend Christmas Eve there.

He nods —looking satisfied, for whatever reason— and you grab his jeans, pulling him closer.

“Want you,” you murmur, nuzzling his crotch. His hand grabs your hair, hard, making you mewl. He’s taking out his cock before you can say anything else and you swallow it like a starving man.

It’s over too soon, but you take what you can and taste every single drop he spills down your throat as he growls like an animal. “Take it, you stupid, stupid idiot, just fucking take it.”

You spend the rest of the holiday in what you soon enough discover is your aunt’s house. Potter’s barely there, but when he is, all you do is fuck, eat muffins and marshmallows, and drink copious amount of alcohol.

**January 1999**

After the New Year celebrations, Potter comes back home —you should really stop calling it _that_ — with a package in his hands. You’re sitting on the sofa, not paying too much attention to the book on your lap.

“I’ve bought you something,” he declares. You stare at him.

“Well, open it, will you?” He throws the gift your way. You take it, bewildered. When you open it, you exhale in relief.

“Mmmh.” You peek into the bag, a dangerous smile forming on your face. “Is this for you or for me?” you ask, lifting a brow at him.

He shrugs. “Both.” He sits next to you, takes out the liquid lipstick from the bag. “Here, let me…” he whispers as he grasps your face. “Part your lips.”

You can feel your cheeks burning up. He’s usually the one wearing make-up, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen, but you? You’re too milky, your features don’t go well with it. But he’s looking at you intently.

You comply. He traces your lips with the small brush, making your lips tingle. When he’s finished, he smiles. It’s the first time he’s not sneering or leering or smirking at you.

“Perfect.” It sounds like a moan. “Merlin, come here.”

A second later he’s pulling the second gift out the bag. It’s an anal vibrator, you recognise it even if it’s a Muggle one.

He spreads your thighs, vanishes your joggers. “Hey, I liked them!” you faintly protest.

“I like you naked more,” Potter growls. His eyes are almost black now, he’s kissing you everywhere. You shiver, moan, beg him. “Fill me, fuck, fuck, yes, do it,” you keep saying as he lubes the dildo and starts pushing it into your hole.

He’s staring at it, transfixed. “Look at you,” he says, biting on his bottom lip, grasping his cock in a tight fist. “Begging like a filthy slut.”

He fucks you with the dildo, makes it vibrate as it brushes your prostate, then stops it again. He keeps bringing you just to the very edge, then stopping, and you’re going mad.

You’re writhing on that sofa, pitiful pleas escaping you, but you don’t care. “Please, please, please, please,” you chant, desperate. “Make me come, please.”

“Say that you’re mine,” he whispers.

You nod frantically. “Yours, oh! Yours, I’m yours.”

He comes in his fist, shoves the vibrator just in the right angle, and you finally come, untouched, his smile filling your vision.

The following three months are weird.

You spend all your time at Potter’s place. Your aunt’s place. Whatever. It’s almost like you live there.

Almost, because even though there are signs —you always spend the night there, Potter’s closets are now full of your clothes, you have breakfast together almost every morning— you can’t admit it.

You’re busy preparing your N.E.W.T.s. So, at first, you don’t realise time passing; you don’t realise you and Potter look happier. That he’s drinking less, smiling more— that you fuck just as much as before, but he’s started asking you to make love to him.

It’s Hermione Granger who opens your eyes.

One morning, you’re baking Potter’s favourite treacle tarts. She Apparates in, Weasel in tow. Before you can panic, they nod your way. They don’t look surprised you’re here.

“I—” You really don’t know what to say. Granger sits on the table, waves her wand to put the kettle on.

“Spare me,” she says. “I don’t like you, I probably never will.”

You’re holding your breath: it’s painful. She cocks her head. “But Harry’s doing better lately.”

Weasley nods. “Hurt him and I’ll kill you.”

Somehow, you believe him.

You finally release your breath. You want everything but to hurt Potter. You can’t tell them, though, so you just nod.

**May 1999**

It’s almost time to sit your N.E.W.T.s. You don’t particularly care: you’ll end up dying alone in some corner of Knockturn Alley anyway. But Potter insists you should at least try.

Something happens, though. Your mother calls you the week before your birthday.

When you arrive at the Manor, a girl you’ve barely seen at school is there with her family.

“Meet the Greengrasses, dear,” your mother says. Her eyes are puffy and streaked with blood. You’re sincerely scared.

After an entire night spent answering questions like, “What do you think you’ll do after Hogwarts, Draco?” and, “When do you plan to marry and have kids?”, all you want to do is drown in Firewhiskey and maybe fuck Potter.

The Greengrasses go back home, then, and you remain alone with your mother. She looks at you; it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“So, what do you think of Astoria?”

_That she’s not Potter,_ you want to reply. You take a deep breath, instead.

“Mother, what’s this travesty?”

She thins her lips. You used to be afraid of her. Now, she only looks tired and a little bit crazy.

“Draco, your father is dead. Someone has to take over the Malfoy line, and that someone is you. You will marry the young Greengrass, you will come to live here, and you will have a male heir, as it has been planned since your birth.”

Your heart skips a beat as your throat dries. You swallow painfully around it. She’s never been an affectionate mother, but she’s loved you. She’s raised you. You owe it to her; it’s not like you can say, _I’m sorry, Mother, but I can’t because I’m in love with Harry Potter._

So you nod, chest tight. “Alright,” you grit out.

Just a few hours later, Potter’s lying on his bed, wrists tied to the headboard and ankles fastened behind your neck.

He’s taking it like a star, lips swollen, painted violet with a new lipstick he bought for only you to see.

You haven’t said a single word since you arrived. You’re just fucking him, scratching your nails over his chest, fastening your mouth on every secret corner of his body.

With horror, you realise tears are streaming down your face, sobs keep slipping past your lips. Potter says nothing.

You’re so angry.

“Fuck you,” is the first thing you tell him. “Just, fuck you,” you repeat, sobbing. He blinks, arches his back to take you deeper.

“I hate you,” you add in his ear for good measure. Before you can drop your head to his neck or his chest again, he captures your lips with his.

He kisses you. It’s slow, tender, too tender. You don’t do these kinds of things.

His hands are now in your hair— he can untie those cords whenever he wants to, the bastard. Just like he’s always been able to untie your life, your heart, your soul, too.

When he breaks the kiss, his lips find your cheeks— he licks away your tears, one by one. He kisses your cheekbones, your jaw, your eyebrows.

You come as he trails his fingers on your temples, kissing your nose. You don’t tell him you can’t keep doing this because in a year you’ll be married.

You’re a coward, you’ve always been one.

**August 1999**

The first two months after the N.E.W.T.s are a blurred hell for you.

The news of your and Astoria’s incoming wedding is everywhere: every newspaper sports titles like, “Death Eater Draco Malfoy Reforms?” You want to scream, to run away, to curl in a corner and cry your soul out.

You hadn’t realised how much you were used to Potter until he disappeared, right after the first time the _Prophet_ kicked up a fuss.

This is how it should go, you tell yourself. You don’t deserve happiness.

It’s around dinner time when the only house-elf that’s stuck around you this long tells you a guest is waiting for you in the parlour. You start trembling— you never have guests over. Actually, you still expect Weasley to turn up and kill you. That, you’d deserve.

When you step into the parlour, however, _he_ ’s there, sitting rigidly on an armchair, legs bouncing nervously. He sees you and his mouth curls into a grimace, full of hatred.

You stop dead at the sight of it, a couple of feet from him. By the stench in the air, he must be completely hammered.

“Congratulations,” Potter says, a pitch too high. He laughs maniacally. “For your wedding. You must be happy.”

You shake your head. Clench your fists to prevent the tears from spilling. He stands up, reaches you with two big strides, and punches you in the guts.

All the air leaves your lungs as you bend over. He pushes you back until you hit the wall. He’s fisting your shirt and, this up close, you can see there are tears in Potter’s eyes too.

“Malfoy,” he says, broken. You can’t hold the tears in anymore, and start crying like a baby as he goes on, “I hate you. But,” he takes a deep breath, his fists tighten. “I need you. Malfoy, do you hear me? I need you.”

You lift your hands to his face, cupping it. You kiss him, tracing the hem of his lips with your tongue. He lets go of your shirt, circles your waist, keeping you close.

“I need you too,” you say. “Did I ever thank you?”

He brushes his nose behind your ear. It tickles you, making a giggle escape you. “For what?”

“For saving my life. After the war and—” you feel your voice break. You swallow thickly. “And now. Every day.” You take a deep breath, manage to calm down enough to add, “I don’t want to get married to Astoria.”

You say it in one breath. Potter’s arms clutch around you. “You saved my life, too.”

Sagging against him, you think you’ve never appreciated hugs so much. After what feels like an eternity, Potter kisses your temple. “Don’t. If you don’t want to, don’t get married. Come stay at my place with me.”

You lift your head, look into his eyes. “But I hate you.”

“I have vibrators. And marshmallows. I can cook— you can still hate me, it’s alright.”

You slap his chest jokingly. “Prick.”

He smiles.

You’re home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments to know what you think about it mean the world to me! You can also come find me on Tumblr, [@drarryruinedme7](https://drarryruinedme7.tumblr.com/). ❤️


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